How I remember it is not how it happened,I’m sure. Every time I go back to a memorythe light in the room is a bit different,or people have changed clothes.Most of us can’t remember our lines.We’re like a junior high drama classtrying to fake our way through the sceneso we can go to lunch.

Memories are not photographs.I can recall standing under the lightpostwrapped in Christmas garland(the lightpost, that is),you in your big purple coatand I with long dark hair –even on top. It was a long time ago,but I can still see the flash.

Yet, once my memory beginsto animate the scene, and we arewalking and talking on the streetsof Charlestown in the Christmas cold,all the years of open invitationsI have seen in your eyes,all the tears and conversationsand laughter add texture and tone.

We’re standing on both sides of my eyes,but not as mirror image or still life(life has never been still for us).We stood there in the cold for that moment,long enough for the camera to catchand then release us to all the otherafternoons where we walked hand in hand,even when no one had a camera.